


Picture Perfect

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Dynamics, First Kiss, Hopeless Romantics, Mikey is a Loveable Dork, Not-So-Perfect Romantic Moments, One-Sided Attraction, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Perfection, ultimately, is so very overrated.  Alternate scene for TMNT 2016.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, BIG credit to sleepingseeker - this piece was inspired by her wonderful work "Perfect". If you're a Apritello fan, go read it. You'll love it.
> 
> Second, I will admit to not having watched the 2016 sequel start to finish, but what I did see provided me with an idea. This is the end result. Mostly, it was an excuse to write (more) Apritello. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to TMNT: Out of the Shadows. Just this fun little fic. Thank you.

“Donnie?”

Her voice is always a pleasant interruption, and somehow manages to permeate any sound otherwise echoing in his ears. Tonight, it’s Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ , thrumming through specially-designed earbuds (the ones sold in stores provide the basic foundations, but require tweaking in order to be functional). Not the most uplifting tune—quite the opposite, actually—but he supposes it’s some sort of self-imposed punishment. Punishment for a fool’s hope encouraged by empty dreams that can never be fulfilled.

Rare are the moments when he doesn’t immediately dart to attention at the sound of April’s voice, at attention and ready to fulfill her wishes without pause. Tonight, her presence is a surprise—he was quite certain Casey invited her to dinner around the seven o’clock hour, and since his watch declares it presently half past, she should be _there_ instead of _here_ —and his mood feels much too heavy. Like a lead weight. Or perhaps a solid block of concrete, right on his chest.

“Hi, April.” He answers, gaze staring blankly at his desk. He vaguely recalls some grand intention of coming in here, enjoying the peace and quiet, and engaging in private celebration of their victory—New York saved again, unsung heroes of the night, etc., etc.—with productivity. Maybe trying to cure cancer. Anything to take his mind off the unaddressed elephant in the room.

Whatever his original intentions, they clearly went out the proverbial window.

His tone, and the way he’s sitting slumped in the chair, must make an impact. Her footsteps are inaudible, but then he feels slender fingers delicately plucking the earbuds free before she settles on the edge of his desk. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She sighs. “You really think you can lie to me, big guy?” The chosen term of endearment almost tugs a smile out of him; really, of the four, he is hardly the one to classify as “big”. That classification belongs, at the very least, to Raphael. “C’mon…what’s going on?”

It’s his turn to sigh, and then shift his head to look at her. Instant mistake, on his part. The lighting in his lab, while primarily florescent bulbs which can easily distort focus, brings her features into blinding clarity. He sees her in a way he thinks, perhaps, he hasn’t seen her before. He wonders if he’s ever really seen her, and then thinks it simply comes down a matter of perception. He’s seen April plenty of times before, but not through this lens: not through the bitter and wasted hope that one day, they might stand on equal ground. Human to human.

He feels something warm burning in his eyes and turns his head away. The humiliation is enough to make him wish for reversion of the mutation, that he can once more be a tiny turtle and tuck himself into a protective shell. Or, even better a thought, to make things simpler between them. As a turtle—reptile of the order _Chelonii_ , simple classification—April might see fit to keep him as a pet. He thinks it a rather pleasant dream: being a mute but constant companion for her, with much simpler feelings. As a turtle, with the basest of emotional capacities, he would never have to know fear for her well-being, overwhelming happiness in her presence…or the bitter taste of jealousy, to watch human males fawn over her, try to court her and—

—He needs to stop thinking about this.

“Donnie,” she slips a little closer to him; one hand rests on his shoulder, soft and warm, and the burning in his eyes grows stronger, “talk to me.”

“It’s nothing.” He lies. “Just thinking.”

She gives him a look; he can feel it even from the peripheral. “Even you don’t think about _nothing_ so intently.”

_Isn’t that the truth?_ “Wondering.” He begins, then clears his throat and makes a pretense of cleaning a smudge on his lens before she notices a single tear trying to sneak its way free. “About things.”

“What kind of things?”

It’s strange: normally, he adores her curiosity, because it brings them closer together. Him and her, knitted comfortably together in ways he never can be with his brothers. He’ll deliberately edit his ordinarily-unrestrained explanation, just to prompt her questions. He’ll seek her advice even when he already developed a solution, because he cherishes her sharp look of concentration; when those clear blue eyes narrow with intense focus at some test tubes or a formula scribbled out on the legal pads she brings him.

Occasionally (more than once…several times, in fact), he’ll “misplace” a legal pad solely for the excuse of calling her up and inquiring if she might have the time to bring a new one. He’s long suspected she is onto his little scheme, but she says nothing.

Tonight…he just wants her to go away. To go and have dinner with Casey or Vern or whoever else is trying to charm her heart, and leave him be.

His silence must communicate as much, because she sighs and slowly straightens off his desk. When he chances a sideways look at her, the breath is punched from his lungs. He expected frustration or annoyance at his obstinacy. He’s not expecting, nor is he prepared for, the hurt lining her flawless features.

“I…I’ll go.” She whispers. “You’re probably busy. I, um…I’ll come by tomorrow. Or…maybe you need a few days. I’ll just wait for your text. Or call. …Bye, Donnie.”

“April…” his breath hitches around her name. If she hears him, there’s no given indication of it. The lab door closes softly behind her. Her footsteps are soft across the concrete floor, growing more distant with each passing second. His heart seems to keep beat with the sound, but hard and fast and deafening in his ears.

What is _wrong_ with him? This is a perfectly rational and logic-based reaction, is it not? Whatever hope they—he, his brothers, maybe even Sensei—held of becoming something more, something human, is gone. Evaporated. Disintegrated from existence. Even if he remembers the basic components of the formula—which he does—the likelihood of him recreating it, with such precision that there isn’t a hint of possible error (unheard of, even by the most skilled scientific genius), is non-existent. It doesn’t even possess a numerical improbability to quote. They’ll never belong to her world. He… _he_ can never be part of her world. They remain outcasts, mutants, and she’s not. She’s a beautiful, brilliant, inspiring woman, and she has two perfectly viable male specimens seeking her affection.

He’s giving her what she deserves, even if she doesn’t know it. It makes perfect sense. Logic without flaw.

…So why is he crying?

His glasses are fogged up and smeared with a haphazard cleaning job. Muttering to himself, he grabs a small rag and scrubs at the lens furiously. Memories start belting him upside the head, without mercy: in particular, April watching him clean his glasses, probably with this same little scrap of cloth, and making a cheery comment about purchasing him a cleaning rag. The real kind, sold in eye doctors’ offices.

He shoves the glasses up his face with more force than necessary, and pinches the skin beside his ears in the process. Perhaps he’s developing some masochistic tendencies. He should mediate on this matter. Maybe for the next five months. Sensei won’t mind, right?

April’s footsteps…he can’t hear them anymore. Did she leave? Of course she did; she said she was going to leave. Why would he ever think…?

…But, what if…?

***

The stupid tears keep leaking out; she has little spots all over her shirt from using it as a makeshift hankie. Cursing them under her breath, April presses the heels of both hands into her eyes until she sees little purple spots. It leaves her with a headache, but the tears stop. At least for a minute.

She sucks in a deep breath and pushes it back out. She’s fine. She’s perfectly fine.

…Just fine.

_Get it together, April. You’re standing in the middle of their living room, for God’s sake._

Her next breath is a frustrated huff, punctuated by the frantic dragging of both hands through her hair. _Why?_ Why is…why do things have to be this way? Why is every step she takes forward just ten steps backward? Why—no, screw that— _How_ does he manage to explain away or flat-out ignore every gesture? What does she have to do, throw herself at him?

The idea has merit, but when her face is streaked with tears and she’s hiccupping and her sinuses feel clogged, it sort of kills the general mood.

In her back pocket, the phone buzzes with a new text. She has to blink a few lingering tears away before the words stop blurring together. The number isn’t one programmed into her phone, but he was gracious enough to sign it:

_Still up for dinner? We could both use a breather._

_Casey_

Part of her is tempted, and sorely at that. A couple hours where she can eat (without losing a cent from her own wallet) and talk about nothing and then go home and collapse in bed. It’s a little vacation, right? And she’s earned a little vacation, hasn’t she?

Maybe so, but not without being a cruel tease. Casey very likely (and most probably) isn’t planning some casual dinner between not-quite-friends-but-more-than-strangers. If she goes, lets him buy her dinner and take up a few hours of her night, it’ll send the wrong message. She already led Vern on once before (mostly unintentionally; the rest of the time…she was desperate, okay??). To do it a second time is just cruel.

She just needs to go home. Go home, watch some sappy chick-flick with plenty of tissues and a huge box of cheap chocolate, and then pass out on her couch.

“April!”

His voice makes her jump halfway out of her skin, and she nearly loses her balance while whipping around. He looks out of breath (strange, considering all of the guys undergo far more intense training than a twenty, maybe thirty-foot sprint from one room to another) and has a wild-eyed look that’s slightly unnerving.

“Donnie…” she feels like she’s calming a spooked animal, “…you okay?”

“I…” his throat seems to lock up mid-sentence (or possibly mid-word, for all she knows), and he just stands there. He’s standing there, she’s standing here, no one is saying anything…

…it feels a little awkward.

Okay, so does she try and break the silence again? With what? Inquiry about his general health? Ask if anyone is interested in pizza and a late-night movie marathon? Comment on how the lair looks cleaner these days (it doesn’t, at least not explicitly, but it might be worth telling the lie just to make him say something)? Crack a knock-knock joke?

These things never seem to happen in the movies. Everything is so perfectly timed and thematically woven with romantic music in the background. The guy and girl are always so put-together. They could have just come out of a hurricane, and they’d look perfect for their big moment. The guy never looks tongue-tied and halfway to fainting (all at once, nonetheless), and the girl certainly doesn’t have splotched cheeks and puffy eyes from crying (don’t even get her started on how those movie chicks always cry perfectly).

The unfairness of it makes her want to scream.

She has about half a second of warning—enough to register that Don suddenly springs into forward movements—before his large hands are on her face, cupping between broad and rough palms, his face tilts closer, and then his mouth is on hers.

Okay…it’s not _completely_ on hers. There are some obvious differences in form to be considered: his mouth is much larger, stretched wider across his face, and thus doesn’t fit perfectly in place. Also, he’s not as much _kissing_ her as he is just pressing lips to hers. His body is completely rigid, limbs frozen in place, and she’s fairly certain he stopped breathing.

Her eyebrows, which previously shot into her hairline, slowly lower in time with the slow breath she releases. With it, the tension and headache seem to leave as well. _Good riddance._

Both hands lazily slide up his arms, glide across his shoulders, and finally entwine around his neck. She tilts herself upward, steps closer, and gently presses her lips against his. The response jerks him back to life: he starts and retreats, as much as he can with her hands still in place, with eyes wide behind his glasses. As rigid as he previously was, he’s now shivering. He looks ready to crawl back inside his lab and never emerge. If he still had a shell capable of housing his limbs, he’d probably tuck himself in there.

Across the room and down the hall, something crashes on the floor.

“Was that inside your lab?” she asks.

“Very likely.”

“It wasn’t the hydrochloric acid, was it?” he keeps a lot of things in his lab, and has a tendency to leave things in tenuous positions. Namely, on the counter edge because he was working with one and then got distracted. They’ve had a few near-misses.

“I haven’t touched it since you were last in the lab.”

Six days ago, and she made a point of tucking it in the far corner, away from shelf ledges; alright, the acid is no longer a viable suspect. “The nitro glycerin?”

“I ran out.” He still sounds breathless, and she feels rather like smirking triumphantly. How, exactly, he ran out of the nitro is a question for later.

“The rubbing alcohol?”

“It’s the most probable.”

“You knocked it off the desk again, didn’t you?”

Now, a sheepish little grin. She loves that little smile. She wants to trace it with her fingertips. “I…I was afraid you’d left…and my exit might have been…slightly rushed.”

Another step forward; she can feel the quiver of his breath against her cheek. “What were you really thinking about earlier?”

“That you are the most beautiful example of humanity in existence.” He blurts out, then flushes dark green, swallows twice, and continues in a meek whisper, “And I’m…not.”

“What’s your point?”

He flushes darker, if possible, but the hands on her face don’t retreat. Instead, his fingers slowly trace her cheekbones, the slope of her jaw, and then make lazy paths down her throat. “We…we could have…there might have been a way. If I’d had a little more time…if I could have gotten my hands on more of the compound…it’s possible we could have…”

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Her hands reach up and take hold of his. Fingers slip between his, two of hers between each of his. She smiles at his confusion, then tilts her head to kiss one wrist. “See? Perfect fit.”

“Well…” he mumbles, but that shy little grin is slowly curving his mouth, “…not perfectly.”

“Perfect is overrated.” She murmurs. “Now stop talking.”

***

“Well, finally.”

“No kidding. Thought we were gonna have to bust some Spin-the-Bottle up in here.”

“Spin-the-Bottle, Raph? Seriously?”

“What?” now, a wicked grin around the toothpick protruding from the left side, “Scared you’ll get stuck with Mikey?”

“Ugh.”

“Oh, come _on_ , bro! Where’s the love?”

“This conversation is over.” Leo declares. “It’s time to clean the dojo.”

“But we’ll miss all the action!”

“Leo said, _move_.” Raph shoves him with one meaty palm. “So move it, Num-Nuts.”

The peace lasts for approximately two minutes and twelve seconds (not that anyone was counting). Then…

“Lemme just take a picture, Leo. This is a momentous occasion. Oh, c’mon—it’s for the family album! And when there’s a whole bunch of little Donnies and little Aprils sitting around, Uncle Mikey can pull out the scrapbook and tell them all about how _I_ was the one who got their Mommy and Daddy together and they can see how cute April and Donnie looked—oh, _oh_! We gotta start planning the wedding! We can have it right here in the lair, and they can get married in the same place they had their first kiss and Sensei can do the whole ‘Do you’ and ‘Do you’ deal and Leo’ll be the best man and Raph can be the flower girl—er, flower boy—and I’ll bake the cake and…”

“…You gonna say anything if I beat him over the head with a mop?” Raphael mutters, while the youngest gleefully continues prattling on and on and on and _on_. Leo sighs, rolls his eyes briefly, and finally shakes his head.

“Make it look like an accident.”

The grin on his brother’s face is quite disconcerting. “That’s the way I roll, bro.”


End file.
